


Reciprocity

by pipermca



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Group Sex, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-06 12:04:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15194399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipermca/pseuds/pipermca
Summary: Hound goes into heat unexpectedly, and his mates are away. Fortunately, Bluestreak is able to help Hound resolve his condition.Afterwards, Hound's mates decide to thank Bluestreak for his kindness.





	1. Chapter 1

Hound started feeling off as he was coming up the last stretch of highway before the turnoff for the Ark. There wasn’t a specific symptom that he could describe or put a name to, just that something started feeling different in his lines. He just felt... Hot. Uncomfortable. Keyed up. Unsettled.

_At least I’m close to home,_ he thought as he turned up the dirt road that lead into the desert canyon where the Autobot’s base was hidden. The last thing he needed was to come down with some new virus in his code while he was in Decepticon territory, or – worse, as far as Ratchet was concerned – pick up an organic contaminant that would have to be cleaned out of his systems. 

As he came around the last turn in the road, though, the odd feelings intensified, and suddenly Hound knew with utter certainty what was happening.

He was coming into heat.

...Which was ridiculous. No one had gone into heat since they’d landed on Earth. Perceptor figured that it was something to do with the poor quality energon they’d been using for fuel, while Wheeljack was fairly certain that the oxidizing atmosphere of the planet had brought all of their reproductive systems to a halt. In any event, counting the time they’d been in stasis, neither Hound nor anyone else had gone into heat in over four million years. 

And if ever there was bad timing for his heat, this was it. Trailbreaker was off on a mission in South Asia for at least another week, and Mirage was on another secret mission; he might be back in an hour, or he might be back in a month. That information was withheld even from his mates in order to protect him and his team. 

Hound would have to handle this on his own.

Even as he felt his core temperature ramping up, Hound clamped down his vents as he drove into the entrance of the Ark. He wasn’t particularly interested in broadcasting his condition to every mech within scent range. He returned Teletraan’s security query, and pinged a greeting to Cliffjumper as he passed the sentry post. Hound pulled his sensors away from the red mech’s small but powerful physique, deleting the lines of thought of how energetic the minibot would probably be when thrusting into...

Fragging heats. Hound fixed his sensors on the ground directly in front of him to avoid seeing anyone else who might pique his interest. He sent a quick query to Ratchet, hoping the medic might be able to give him suppressants to at least take the edge off of the heat. Ratchet responded that he was busy at the moment, but would have time to see Hound in an hour.

Hound changed course for the washracks. He could keep himself cool and occupied for an hour.

But Hound had only been standing under the cold solvent for a few minutes before he realized that not only had this heat come on faster than any heat he’d ever experienced before, it was also stronger. An hour? Hound wasn’t sure he would last ten minutes. He leaned his helm against the wall of the washrack, letting the freezing solvent spray down his back, and focused on blanking his processor. Maybe if he didn’t think about anything, the hour would pass quickly. He certainly shouldn’t think about seeing Ratchet... Ratchet, with his specialized hands that could also do the most delicate surgical work, and his strong arms that could lift a mech straight off the floor to the perfect height to slip his spike into–

Hound’s engine let out a quiet whine. 

He smelled the other mech before he heard the pede steps. There was that lemony wax that the twins got from someplace in town, paired with the rich oily scent that all three Praxians had because of the way their engines were tuned. “Hi, Bluestreak,” Hound said, his optics still closed to the cold spray. But he could picture the young Praxian, with his broad shoulders, sensitive door wings, and sturdy legs, just right for giving him leverage to–

Hound shuddered and issued an override to his interface panel. Just fifty more minutes.

“Hi, Hound! You must have just gotten back from patrol! I did too, except I think I came in from a different direction than you did. They sent me up towards Reno. It was so hot! At least I missed the worst of the wind storm that Teletraan was warning about. I suppose you might have seen some rain even if they sent you north, since that was part of the same system, and...” Bluestreak’s voice trailed off for a moment. “Hound, are you all right?”

Taking a shaky vent of cool air, Hound shook his helm. “No,” he choked out. He loosened his vents slightly in response to the warning on his HUD about his core temperature, knowing that the pheromones leaking out of his systems would give him away anyway. Bluestreak was going to find out, one way or the other. He turned his helm and opened his optics. Through the streams of cold solvent that ran down his face, Hound saw the sniper looking at him with a concerned frown. “I’ve gone into heat.”

Bluestreak’s door wings lifted as his face reflected his surprise, then flashed back to concern. “Oh! Oh, wow. All right. Did you need me to comm Trailbreaker or Mirage for you?” he asked. He set down the chamois and wax that he’d brought with him to the washrack and then took a step back from Hound. The green mech appreciated the gesture; back on Cybertron it had been considered polite to stay away from a mech in heat until you were asked to approach, so that you would stay out of range of their scent.

Hound shook his helm. “They aren’t here. Neither of them will be back for a week, at least,” he said. His optics started to drift down towards Bluestreak’s hips, and he wrenched them back up to the Praxian’s face.

“Well, is there anyone else you want me to get?” Bluestreak asked. “Or maybe Ratchet could give you a suppressant.”

Right. Ratchet. Hound shook his helm as the image of the medic entered his processor again. “This is worse than any heat I’ve ever had,” Hound said, his words sounding thick in his vocalizer. “I don’t think a suppressant is going to cut it.” The suppressant would only cool his systems and slow the production of his pheromones. They would do nothing for the crawling need that permeated his processor, or for the ache in his valve that only a spike could alleviate. 

His optics drifted back down Bluestreak’s frame, considering the Praxian. And in his mind, he could hear his mates chastising him for not simply asking for what his coding required. “Hound, love,” Mirage would say. “Why would you torture yourself with suppressants? Even back home they were only used in emergencies. You have a whole ship of mechs here who would be willing to help you.” The lithe noble would shake his helm at his mate’s folly. “Do what your coding asks of you. You know you’ll feel so much better afterwards.”

Hound’s other mate would be slightly less tactful. “Don’t be an idiot, Hound,” Trailbreaker would say, probably with a deep laugh. “Find someone you like and get yourself fragged. You know I won’t give a scrap, and neither would Mirage. You do what you gotta do.”

Bluestreak still hovered near the door of the washracks. “All right, but you should still probably let Ratchet know anyway, especially if it’s a bad one,” he said. “So if you don’t want a suppressant... Who did you want me to get for you? Or is there anything else I can do for you?” He took a step towards Hound before his hands clenched into fists, and he stepped back into the doorway. Hound realized his pheromones must be very strong to affect the Praxian from that distance.

Hound’s optics roamed over Bluestreak’s prominent bumper, his bulky forearms, and his powerful hips before returning to his worried face. He was actually quite attractive, something that Hound had never seemed to notice before. Quickly coming to a decision, Hound locked his optics on Bluestreak’s. “I... Can you help me?” Hound asked. “Please? I... I’ve always considered you a friend, and...” His voice trailed off into a whine as an intense wave of heat swept through his lines. 

“Me?” Bluestreak’s door wings tipped even higher, but he stepped back into the washrack. “Are you sure?”

At Bluestreak’s surprise, a thought shone through Hound’s overwhelming need. Hound realized that wasn’t exactly sure how old the Praxian was, or even if he’d interfaced before. He’d joined the crew shortly before they left Cybertron, and Hound didn’t know much about the sniper’s history. Bluestreak was obviously an adult, but he still seemed very young. Had he paired up with anyone on the Ark? Sure, Hound knew that Bluestreak and the twins got on really well, but Hound had never really paid any mind to just how close that relationship was. His engine coughed as he took another vent of cool air, trying to cool his systems. Maybe he’d have to find someone else. “I’m sorry, Bluestreak,” he said, his voice full of static. “It’s all right if you haven’t interfaced before. If you aren’t comfortable with this, I could–“

Even through the distraction of the heat in his lines and the ache in his array, Hound could see the affront on Bluestreak’s face. “Of course I’ve interfaced before! Why does everyone always treat me like I’m a sparkling? I had three heats of my own before we left Cybertron,” he said. Bluestreak’s expression softened when he saw the chagrin on Hound’s face. “I’m sorry. I’m not mad. I’d be happy to help you,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t just settling on the first mech you saw.”

Hound laughed and shook his helm. “No, that would have been Cliffjumper,” he said. He turned under the stream of solvent to face Bluestreak. “Please help me,” he said again.

Without any further hesitation, Bluestreak nodded and crossed the floor to Hound. The four-by-four’s fans roared as Bluestreak reached past him to turn off the solvent. “Let’s get you dried off a bit, and then to someplace a little more private, all right?” he said. He grabbed a towel and started wiping the solvent from Hound’s frame.

Hound knew that Bluestreak was trying to be gentle, but even the slight touches of the towel against Hound’s plating sent his lines alight. He bit his lower lip, trying to think of anything except shoving Bluestreak down onto the floor of the washrack and straddling him, riding his spike as–

Hound moaned quietly, and focused on Bluestreak’s voice. He was talking to someone – Red Alert? – asking for the corridors to be cleared. And then it sounded like he was talking to Ratchet, letting the medic know that they were going to need fuel brought to them. Hound whimpered, realizing that Bluestreak was doing everything he could to make Hound comfortable and feel cared for. The Praxian’s consideration only made the need burn brighter in Hound’s processor, knowing that Bluestreak was an excellent choice, he would be such a good mate, so considerate and caring, a good sire for Hound’s sparkling, and...

Hound shook his helm. Frag. He must be really far gone if he was thinking about actually getting sparked by Bluestreak. Hound hoped to the Pit that his ignition block was still active, or that Bluestreak’s was. He opened his mouth to mention this, but then Bluestreak slid the towel over his aft, collecting a few drips of solvent, and Hound’s thought processes careened off track again.

As Bluestreak carefully stroked the towel down Hound’s thigh, Hound’s interface panel snapped aside, and hot lubricant drooled down his leg. He had felt it pooling behind his panel, but it was surprising how much there was of it. Hound started to mutter an apology as Bluestreak stood and tossed the towel aside. “Hey, it’s all right,” Bluestreak said, sliding a hand around Hound’s shoulders. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

Hound clutched at Bluestreak’s armor as the sniper guided him through the halls of the Ark. Now that his coding knew that he was only minutes away from having a spike in his valve, Hound found that he had almost no control over his interface systems. As he stumbled next to Bluestreak, the mere motion of his legs swinging back and forth made his swollen anterior node brush against the folds of his valve, sending slight jolts through his frame. With every jolt, the need for his valve to be filled grew stronger.

No. He had **never** had a heat like this. Primus help them all if everyone started going through this.

As they rounded a corner, Hound couldn’t hold out any longer. He needed something in his valve, and he needed it now. He fell against Bluestreak, doubling over to shove two of his fingers into himself. “Blue, please,” he hissed as he rocked the heel of his hand against his node, pumping his fingers into his drooling valve. Where was Bluestreak taking him? It felt like they had been walking for hours. He’d heard Bluestreak ask for the corridors to be emptied. What harm could be done if Bluestreak just fragged him here in the hallway? With his free hand, Hound pulled on Bluestreak’s arm, trying to urge him to the floor. “Please...”

“It’s just a few more steps,” Bluestreak said soothingly, and swept Hound into his arms in one smooth motion. Hound gasped as he felt himself lifted in Bluestreak’s strong arms. He hadn’t thought that the Praxian was able to carry him like that, but Bluestreak didn’t seem to be struggling in the slightest.

And... Oh frag, this was amazing. Hound added a third finger to his valve and pistoned them in and out, his thighs drifting apart and his ventillations coming in gasps. Maybe Bluestreak would spin him around, pinning him against the wall right there in the hallway, hilting himself in one sudden move and–

“Hound? Stay with me, Hound. Come on, you need to enter your code.” 

Hound rose from his daze enough to recognize that they stood in front of the door to the quarters he shared with his two mates. Bluestreak was tipping him slightly downwards, leaning against the wall next to the keypad. Distantly, Hound noted that Bluestreak’s fans were whining as they attempted to bleed heat from the sniper’s frame. He looked up at Bluestreak’s face, and saw an all-too familiar need reflected in Bluestreak’s expression. His optics had darkened and his mouth hung open, his lips moving slightly as if talking to himself. A distant part of Hound’s processor marveled that Bluestreak was resisting the urge long enough to bother getting them inside. 

Inside. Right. Hound removed his fingers from his valve and punched in the code, not caring at all that his sticky fingers left smears of lubricant on the keys.

And then the door shushed open and Bluestreak was settling him down on the wide berth. “Wow, Hound, this berth is huge! Although I guess it would have to be, what with sharing it with Trailbreaker and all. Do all three of you recharge here at once? Here, let me get you away from the edge a bit...” The sniper’s voice was rough with static, but he kept up the patter as he crawled on top of Hound’s frame. “I guess I’ve never been in your quarters, and... That makes sense with two roommates, and... Your berth takes up space a couch would have...” Bluestreak’s vocalizer reset as every phrase he uttered dissolved into feedback. “Slag, Hound, please, please tell me now if there’s something I shouldn’t do, or something you don’t want, and I’m so sorry if this isn’t going to be how you wanted it. I’m usually not this... I **can’t**... You smell so good and it’s been all that I could do to get you back here and – oh frag...”

Bluestreak’s engine coughed as Hound dragged him down on top of him. Spreading his legs wide, Hound clutched at Bluestreak’s back, pulling him down as if he could make their frames one. “Please, Blue, please, it’s all good, just **please** ,” Hound begged, then whimpered as he heard Bluestreak’s panel transform aside.

Later, Hound was sure that he would have been completely embarrassed by the squeal of utter delight that escaped him as Bluestreak’s spike pressurized directly into his valve, had anyone else been around to hear it. Bluestreak only moaned incoherently as his spike’s passage into Hound’s engorged and drenched valve made an obscene squelching sound, audible above both of their cooling systems running at max.

Relief washed through Hound as Bluestreak’s spike filled him, stretching his valve just right. The Praxian rocked back, then thrust forward again roughly, stimulating the sensors inside Hound’s valve that had been activated by his heat. Two more thrusts, and Hound hooked his pedes around the back of Bluestreak’s thighs, urging him to move faster, harder. Bluestreak complied, wrapping his arms under and around Hound’s shoulders to give himself better leverage. The Praxian grunted with the force of each of his thrusts, lighting up nodes deeper in Hound’s valve.

Bliss. Hound felt the overwhelming fog lift slightly from his processor, and he focused on Bluestreak’s face. The sniper’s helm was lowered slightly, but he lifted his optics as he moved his hips, seeking both his own release and Hound’s. Some semblance of rationality had returned to Bluestreak’s expression, and his optics darted all over Hound’s face as a frown creased his brow. “Is this... Are you all right?” he asked his voice still distorted with static even as he drove his spike into Hound’s valve over and over.

Rendered incapable of speaking due to the rising charge flowing through his systems, Hound just nodded, his lips parting in a smile, and barked out a stuttering laugh. It was fine. It was better than fine. He patted Bluestreak on the shoulder in what he hoped was a reassuring manner, before returning his hands to the sniper’s back. He clung to Bluestreak, urging him to thrust harder and willing the charge to climb higher. With every movement of Bluestreak’s hips, Hound could feel his coding settling. One good overload was usually enough to satisfy his heat, but with as strong as this one had been–

His charge crested suddenly and unexpected in its force. Hound’s vision broke up with artifacting, but through the distortion he could see Bluestreak’s face. The Praxian closed his optics and groaned, his door wings fluttering delicately behind him, as Hound’s charge flowed into him as well, tipping them both over the edge. Bluestreak curled into Hound, his spike spurting hot fluid deep into Hound’s valve.

But as soon as his vision cleared, Hound whined. It wasn’t enough. Even with Bluestreak’s softening spike still in him, Hound felt the incessant urge rising once more. His engine growled in frustration and he glared at the ceiling. “You’ve got to be slagging kidding me,” he muttered.

Immediately he felt Bluestreak pull away slightly, and looked back down at the Praxian. Bluestreak’s door wings had tipped down, and he was frowning. His expression was contrite. “I’m so sorry, Hound, I was trying to hold back but I’ve never scented anyone in heat like that before. I can’t imagine how bad it was for you, but that’s no excuse. I should have tried harder. I know I was a little too aggressive, and I’m sorry that it wasn’t good for you, but –“

Hound put his hand over Bluestreak’s mouth to silence him and kept his legs locked around the sniper’s thighs to keep him from pulling further away. “No, Bluestreak, it’s all right. You didn’t do anything wrong.” As he felt Bluestreak relax, he lowered his hand. Then he grimaced apologetically before trying to wipe away the smear of lubricant he’d inadvertently painted on Bluestreak’s upper lip. Absently he noted how pliable and kissable the Praxian’s lips were. “If anything, you could have been more aggressive and I really wouldn’t have minded.”

As he tipped his helm slightly to the side, Bluestreak peered at Hound. “That’s good to hear. We didn’t have much time to discuss things before everything started happening, and I was worried that I might hurt you or do something that you weren’t comfortable with. So then...” Bluestreak paused and listened. Realization spread across his face as he heard Hound’s fans spinning up again, and his optics widened. “Oh. Oh, wow. That didn’t do it, huh? Are your heats always this strong?”

Hound shook his helm. “No,” he said. “I’ve **never** had one this bad.” He reached up with his other hand and finally succeeded in removing the sheen of lubricant from Bluestreak’s face, and he smiled. “But Bluestreak... Really. You don’t need to be worried about hurting me. I actually like it a little rough. In fact...” He thought for a moment, a shudder running through him at the picture his desire was drawing in his mind. “That first time, I actually felt the heat abating a bit before you started holding back. So just... Go for it.”

Bluestreak looked dubious, even as Hound could feel the sniper’s spike repressurizing, still sunk into Hound’s valve. His optics slowly darkened once more as a fresh wave of pheromones wafted from Hound’s vents. “You’ll tell me to stop before I hurt you, right?” he asked, shifting his weight to find his leverage on the berth again.

With a laugh, Hound nodded. “I will, I promise. But remember... Trailbreaker is one of my mates, and ‘gentle’ isn’t something that he’s very good at,” he said, his voice roughening as he felt the urge to be filled becoming more intense. 

A calculating glint lit Bluestreak’s optics before a smile crossed his face. “I’ve got an idea, then,” Bluestreak said, firmly pulling himself away from Hound. 

As Bluestreak’s spike slid free of Hound’s valve, the four-by-four keened softly. The instant his valve was empty, his lines flared up with burning heat again. It was as if having something inside of him had been keeping his coding in line. Without something hard pressing against his interior nodes, Hound could think of nothing except filling the void with something hard and hot.

Before Hound could reach for Bluestreak, the Praxian had pulled Hound to the edge of the berth. Bluestreak stood on the floor beside the berth and lifted Hound’s legs so that his knees were pressed back, almost against his shoulders. With no preamble, he slid his spike back into Hound’s aching valve. “I thought this looked like a standard-height berth so I was pretty sure this would work.” He pulled back and then thrust forward, bending Hound almost in two. “Like I was trying to tell you before, I’ve learned a few things about interfacing since I had my adult upgrades. I’ve even picked up a few things from mechs here on Earth. Err, maybe I shouldn’t talk about that now. But the good thing about this position is that I’ve got a lot more leverage, and maybe that will help satisfy your coding since I have a little better angle...”

Hound let Bluestreak’s words wash over him as he closed his optics and surrendered to the sensations. As his hips tipped upwards with each thrust, Hound could feel Bluestreak’s spike hitting nodes that only Trailbreaker had been able to reach before. He could feel them lighting up, pulling in more and more charge. And each time Bluestreak bottomed out, the edge of his panel slid past Hound’s anterior node, triggering a quake that shook his entire frame. 

A series of delirious sounds escaped from Hound’s lips, little mewls that occasionally morphed into sobs. Primus. Fragging Priumus, he was going to have to tell Mirage about this. No, better... He was going to have to **show** this to Mirage. As a surprise. Blindfolded. And then try it on Trailbreaker...

He locked his pedes over Bluestreak’s shoulders, urging the sniper down towards him with each thrust. Faster. Harder. More. His hands scrabbled against Bluestreak’s upper arms until Bluestreak finally grabbed his hands and pinned them down to the berth on either side of his helm. “Let me know if you want me to let go,” he heard Bluestreak pant, his vocalizer straining for clarity.

It took an effort, but Hound opened his optics and looked up at Bluestreak. Upon meeting his gaze, Bluestreak’s face broke into a broad grin. Before the question could form on Hound’s lips, Hound’s helm rocked back in ecstasy as his frame was wracked by his second overload.

No. He had never had a heat like this before. But he had also never had an overload like this before. Not this fast and not this deep.

As Hound’s system hit their limits in a lightning-fast cascade, he felt Bluestreak shudder with him, filling him again, coating every node and receptor in his valve and initiating the process to cycle down his heat.

The last thing he heard before his sensors shut down was a murmur in his audial from a voice that was heavy from exertion. “I’m game to keep going but... If that didn’t work, I think I’m gonna need a break before we try again...”

* * *

He was warm, and tired, and sore. Strong arms were wrapped around him, and his helm was being nuzzled gently. 

Even though the sensation of being held and comforted in strong arms was familiar, Hound knew that it was not Trailbreaker holding him. Trailbreaker smelled like pine and mud and grease, not like oily lemon. And Mirage was not nearly as strong, and he smelled of paraffin and copper and rubber.

As he finished booting, Hound took a deep vent and let it out in a contented sigh. “Thank you, Bluestreak.”

The nuzzling on his helm stopped. “Did you... Did that work? Is it over?” Bluestreak asked hesitantly. 

Hound reviewed the information on his HUD and nodded. “Yeah. That did it.” He onlined his optics and looked up at Bluestreak. “I’ve never needed an overload that strong before, but I guess this heat wasn’t normal.”

Bluestreak nodded. “I’ll say. Really, I was really struggling not to just... You know, not just do it in the washrack. Or the hallway. I’m sure Red Alert wouldn’t have liked that. And I probably would have gotten an audial full from Prowl. That scent was really something else, so I can’t imagine how bad it must have been for you! Oh, that reminds me...” Bluestreak shifted to grab something from the table beside the berth. “Ratchet brought some fuel by for you... You were running so hot, I figured you’d have burned through your fuel super fast.” He handed a cube of energon to Hound, who took it gratefully. “When you’re ready, Ratchet said he wants to see you. He wants to do a complete check on you, especially once he found out how hard it hit you.” Bluestreak frowned slightly. “And he probably also wants to figure out what caused it.”

Hound nodded. “Understandable.” He finished the cube and handed it back to Bluestreak, who immediately gave him another. Hound laughed quietly. “Thanks. I **was** pretty low on fuel.” He took another swig. “But really, thanks for all of this. I don’t think I could have asked for any better treatment.”

Bluestreak ducked his helm as if to hide his smile. “It’s all right. I was happy to do it. I... I had two really good experiences with my heats, and one bad one. After the bad one, I decided that if I was ever given the invitation to help someone else with their heat, that I would do anything I could to make it good for them. They’re bad enough as they are...” Bluestreak shuddered and glanced away. “It’s just the compassionate thing to do, you know?”

Hound let his helm fall back on Bluestreak’s chest. “Yeah, I know. You’re a good mech, Bluestreak. And I’m sure going to let Mirage and Trailbreaker know how good you did by me.”

Bluestreak’s engine, which had been purring quietly under Hound’s helm, coughed slightly. “This... This isn’t going to cause any problems between you three, is it?” When Hound peered back up at him, Bluestreak added, “I mean, I know you were in heat, but sometimes mates get jealous anyway...”

Hound patted Bluestreak’s abdomen. “You leave them to me,” he said. “And I honestly don’t think they’re going to have any problems with this.” He gave Bluestreak a smile. “You’ll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My muse demanded that I write a heat fic. (It's amazing what occurs to you when you're stuck in a car for twelve hours.) After I started writing it, my muse said, "Err, I **did** mention this had two chapters right??"


	2. Chapter 2

Frowning thoughtfully, Bluestreak made another notation on the data pad in his hand.

There. That looked right. He still wanted to get Wheeljack to take a look at his final design, of course, but he was pretty sure that his new scope design would be a huge improvement over what they were using now. Wheeljack had enthusiastically agreed to let Bluestreak use his lab to craft a prototype of the new scope, and Bluestreak was both humbled and thrilled that the engineer trusted him enough to let him use his equipment... Along with the scarce resources they had. The thought of finally getting able to craft something with his hands again, rather than just pulling a trigger, was almost like a dream come true.

Bluestreak’s door wings wiggled excitedly as he reviewed the design. He’d been unexpectedly given the afternoon and evening off, even though it was his turn for sentry duty. Prowl had pushed out a roster update that morning, taking Bluestreak out of the rotation for the day. When he’d received the update, Bluestreak thought that maybe Prowl had made a mistake but... No, Prowl didn’t make mistakes. It was all very strange.

Well, regardless, Bluestreak was happy to have the time off. Not only was he able to get this design done, but he might even be able to go out for a drive. Maybe the twins were free.

Bluestreak was so absorbed in double checking the measurements in his scope design that he missed the shadow falling across the table behind the data pad, until a voice said, “Hello, Bluestreak.”

Looking up, Bluestreak cycled his optics in surprise. “Oh... Hi, Hound! And Mirage. And Trailbreaker!” He lifted his door wings in greeting and set down the data pad. “How are you? Trailbreaker, you must have just gotten back.” He paused as he realized that all three members of the triad were staring at him with intent expressions on their faces. “Um... Is there something that you needed?”

Hound smiled. “Actually, we’re here to talk to you. I told them what you did for me a week ago, and they wanted to thank you in person.”

Oh! Right, Hound’s heat. Ratchet had checked out Hound **and** Bluestreak, just to be on the safe side. The medic wasn’t one-hundred percent sure, but he suspected that Hound had picked up some sort of fungus or bacteria that could bond with silica, which had somehow triggered Hound’s heat. It had probably been sheer luck that Bluestreak hadn’t picked it up from Hound in turn. After running some tests, Ratchet and Perceptor had devised a new filter to hopefully keep anyone else from becoming infected with the contaminant, and they had it deployed to all the other Autobots. The last thing they needed was for the whole crew to come into heat at the same time. The Decepticons would probably find that hilarious.

Dipping his door wings, Bluestreak smiled at Mirage and Trailbreaker. “It was my pleasure. Literally. Err, it’s all right to say that, right?” he asked, glancing at Hound, who nodded. “Good. I was happy to help!”

Mirage leaned forward and put his hand on Bluestreak’s arm. “We were hoping that we could do more than just thank you verbally,” he said. He brushed his fingers in a small circle on Bluestreak’s wrist before withdrawing his hand again. “Hound told us about your – ah – assistance in great detail, including the lengths you went through to make sure that he felt comfortable.” He flashed a demure smile. “We were hoping that we could show you our thanks in a more practical fashion.”

“What Mirage is tryin’ to get at here, is that we’d like you to come to our quarters tonight.” Trailbreaker grinned at Bluestreak. “We’ve got some treats, a few new movies Teletraan got for us, and a berth bigger than Optimus Prime’s.” He flashed his visor at the sniper playfully. “We made sure you got tonight off, so we know you’re free.”

Bluestreak gaped at Trailbreaker before answering. “You’re the ones who got Prowl to rearrange my shifts?” He sat back in his chair. “How? He almost never takes requests like that because it messes with his ‘plan.’”

Mirage waved a hand dismissively. “It’s amazing what a quick word with Jazz will do when you want something from Prowl.”

Hound put his hand over Bluestreak’s to draw his attention again. “If you’re not interested, that’s fine. We hope you enjoy your night off – our treat! But we’d really like it if you came over.”

“Think about it!” said Trailbreaker as he got up from the table. “If you are interested, we’ll see you around... say, 1800 local?”

Utterly confounded, Bluestreak nodded. “Sure, right. I’ll think about it,” he repeated. Then he watched the triad leave the rec room, all of them with smiles on their faces.

* * *

Bluestreak was **pretty** sure he’d just been propositioned. 

Because really, what else could that have been? He supposed it was **possible** that maybe they intended to just eat treats and watch movies while they all sat on their huge berth, but... No, he was pretty sure they were interested in more than just a movie.

That didn’t stop him from second-guessing himself all afternoon. Just in case, he borrowed Sunstreaker’s buffer, and spent some extra time getting the grit out of his seams. Sure, the triad saw him all the time and they knew what he looked like, but he didn’t want to make it seem like he didn’t care what he looked like.

You know... In case anything **did** happen. 

Which it might not.

He was still waging this internal debate at 1759 local when he walked up to the triad’s door, holding a small bottle of Sideswipe’s bootleg synthex. After a very brief hesitation as he waited for his chronometer to tick over to 1800, he pinged the buzzer for their quarters. 

He felt nervous, which was really weird. He’d hooked up with lots of mechs before! But none of them had ever approached him like this. That, and there were three of them. Hooking up with **three** other mechs just seemed like a whole lot more mechs than just **two** other mechs. And, well, Bluestreak didn’t really count the twins, because... 

The door opened almost immediately after his ping. “Bluestreak! We’re glad you made it,” Hound said, stepping aside and gesturing for Bluestreak to enter the room.

Bluestreak glanced around the quarters. It was exactly the same as he remembered from his previous visit: a small table with three chairs set in the corner, a vid unit set up next to it against the wall, and a gigantic berth that dominated the room. Shelves around the room held personal items for the three inhabitants. 

The only difference this time was that the room’s air wasn’t steeped with pheromones and the scent of lubricant and ozone. 

After pulling a full ventilation to calm himself as the door closed behind him, Bluestreak smiled. “Your invitation really worked my curiosity up, and like you said I suddenly didn’t have any plans for tonight, so spending the evening with you all sounded interesting.” Bluestreak tried not to make his statement sound like a question, but he wasn’t sure he succeeded. He handed the bottle to Trailbreaker, who opened it and sniffed it carefully. “Sideswipe said this batch was pretty potent, so you might want to mix it with regular fuel. He suggested a 50/50 mix, topped with some iron shavings.”

“You didn’t need to bring anything, but thanks! I’m gonna be really depressed once Sideswipe gets busted for this eventually.” Ignoring Bluestreak’s warning, Trailbreaker tipped the bottle to his mouth and took a swig. He wheezed and coughed a bit as he recapped the bottle. “Not bad! I could drink this straight, but I can see why Sideswipe suggests using a mixer. I’ll just put this over with the rest of our stash.”

As Trailbreaker moved away, Mirage stepped forward and took both of Bluestreak’s hands. He leveled a look at the Praxian and smiled. “I just want to make sure you understand what we intend for tonight,” he said. “We want to give you as much care and pleasure as you offered to our Hound.”

“He’s tryin’ to say we want to frag you silly,” Trailbreaker added as he tried to find a place on his shelf for the new bottle.

“And if you aren’t interested in that, the offer of movies still stands,” Hound said. “An evening of just hanging out would be fine with us, too.”

Aha. So they **had** been propositioning him. Well, it seemed obvious now, but Bluestreak knew he sometimes misread signals from other mechs. “I’m interested!” he said with a nod. He glanced from Mirage to Hound to Trailbreaker, and realized that they were all looking at him with the same intent expression that they’d had in the rec room earlier. He suddenly felt like a glitchmouse being stared at by three turbofoxes. “I... Uh, think you’re all, um, really great mechs!” He winced internally upon hearing his own awkwardness.

Fortunately, the other three mechs didn’t seem to mind his self-consciousness. Mirage smiled and started tugging him towards the berth. “We are so happy to hear that. We’ve been looking forward to this.” He started arranging some pillows, and encouraged Bluestreak to lean back into them. “Now... Have you ever been with more than one mech at once?”

At the question, Bluestreak hesitated. He thought it was fairly common knowledge that he and the twins got together frequently in their quarters, and Bluestreak knew that everyone just assumed they were all fragging. Which was true, sort of. Except he’d never fragged Sideswipe, and so had never been with both at the same time. But usually Sunstreaker would frag him (or the other way around) while Sideswipe watched. The twins explained that’s how things worked with them, so Bluestreak didn’t think too much about it. Initially it seemed like an odd arrangement, but since when were split-spark twins ever normal?

Bluestreak looked at Mirage and said, “No, not really.” It was about as truthful as he felt he could be. He didn’t think that the details of his casual trysts with the twins was anything he could share with others.

“Then here’s what we’re going to do.” Hound sat on the berth beside Bluestreak and rested his hand on the sniper’s chest. “We’re going to do all of the work, and you just have to lay back and enjoy it.”

The stirrings of interest that had been building in his interface array intensified, and Bluestreak nodded. “I can do that.”

Trailbreaker gently lifted Bluestreak’s helm and settled it in his huge lap. “Anything you don’t want us to do? Or do ya have any parts that are a bit more sensitive?” he asked. 

Bluestreak thought for a moment before answering. “Everyone always thinks door wings are really sensitive, since they see Jazz playing with Prowl’s all the time,” Bluestreak said. “And they are, but not how you think... They’re usually just ticklish.”

Hound laughed. “So you’re saying that Jazz isn’t trying to get Prowl riled up when he’s touching his door wings, he’s just tickling him?”

Bluestreak nodded. “That’s right. Err, and if you ever repeat that, you didn’t hear it from me. But other than that, my chevron is pretty sensitive, just like my audials. I, uh, really like having those touched. And... licked or kissed,” he said a little shyly. Hey, they were asking, right? He blundered on. “But that’s about it. I can’t think of anything I specifically **don’t** want you to do. So how about, if I say stop, then stop, all right?”

“Absolutely,” Mirage said with a purr. He had settled down next to Bluestreak, while Hound was shifting down towards Bluestreak’s legs. “So we decided that each of us will show you our appreciation in the way we are best able. Hound insisted on going first.”

Bluestreak looked down as Hound nudged his legs slightly apart so he could kneel between them. The green scout smiled at Bluestreak and placed his hand on the Praxian’s interface panel. “You can open this whenever you’re ready, Blue. But try to keep your spike cover locked; we’ll be getting to that a little later.”

Bluestreak’s attention was being pulled in so many different directions at once, he wasn’t quite sure where to focus his sensors. Hound’s hand felt warm on Bluestreak’s already heated panel. Bluestreak issued a lock command to his spike cover before he forgot. Mirage had procured a soft cloth from somewhere and was using it to delicately wipe the seams in Bluestreak’s armor. It felt amazing, and he was happy that he’d done the extra work on his armor before coming here. Trailbreaker’s huge fingers were gently rubbing up and down the cords in Bluestreak’s neck, massaging each line in turn. 

He’d been to a spa once in his existence, as a gift from a friend in Prax– ...Err, anyway, a friend had gifted it to him, and it felt sort of like this. Except they hadn’t touched his interface panel at all in the oh-so-distracting way that Hound was doing. Bluestreak let his panel transform aside, and he heard Hound hum quietly.

With his fingers, the four-by-four traced the edges of Bluestreak’s valve gently, first up one side, then down the other. The touches were maddeningly light and teasing, and Bluestreak lifted his knees and placed his pedes on the surface of the berth, trying to give Hound more room. But still the light touches continued, with Hound’s fingers barely even slipping into his folds before sliding back up or down the outside of his opening. 

Maddening, yes. But those light touches were also making his legs tremble and his array light up with heat and need.

Before Bluestreak could lift his helm to see what Hound was doing, Trailbreaker placed a huge finger under Bluestreak’s chin to tilt his helm back to look up at him. “I think we mentioned we have treats!” he said. He reached to the table beside the berth and held a small gelled square in his fingers. “We’ve got a bit of a variety: iron, copper, cobalt, zinc, silver...” He popped it into his mouth. “What flavour would ya like?”

“Oh, silver, please!” Bluestreak stared up Trailbreaker as he turned to grab another square. “Where did you get silver? Prowl said it’s rare enough on Earth that it’s too expensive to use for treats.”

“It turned out Smokescreen had a little stash,” Trailbreaker said. He smiled down at Bluestreak and held out the treat. “Open up.”

Bluestreak eagerly opened his mouth, and watched as Trailbreaker lowered the treat to his mouth and popped it in. Bluestreak closed his mouth around the treat. He dimmed his optics in bliss, letting the tangy gel with the silver shavings dissolve on his glossa and–

Hound pushed two wet fingers into Bluestreak’s valve, and his glossa dragged up the length of Bluestreak’s opening to flick against his partially hidden anterior node.

His mouth still full of the sticky treat, Bluestreak’s optics flew wide and he made a strangled noise.

“Our Hound isn’t being too rough with you, now, is he?” Mirage asked, working the cloth into another seam in Bluestreak’s armor, brushing against connections that lay just below the surface.

Bluestreak swallowed the treat as he shook his head. “N-no! It’s fine. Just surprised me. That feels...” Hound’s glossa delved deeper into his folds as his fingers stretched him slightly, lapping carefully at the nodes that lay just inside the entrance. Fighting to keep the static from his voice, Bluestreak said, “That feels really good, Hound.”

“Hound’s got quite the talented glossa,” Mirage said. He had worked his way up to Bluestreak’s collar fairing, and gently vented hot air across its surface before polishing it with his cloth. “Why don’t you give Bluestreak one of the iron squares, Trailbreaker? They’re reminiscent of rust sticks, but aren’t quite as sweet.”

Hound’s glossa laved over nodes inside Bluestreak’s valve that he shouldn’t have been able to reach. Bluestreak’s engine whined quietly as Hound’s fingers curled inside him, pressing upwards and activating a sensor buried deep in the folds of his array.

Planting his pedes firmly, Bluestreak arched upwards at the wave of pleasure that rocked through him. It felt as though the sensor Hound had found was connected directly to his hips, forcing them to rise and tremble, trying to both escape the sensation and demanding more. Bluestreak opened his mouth in a quiet moan.

Trailbreaker stuck another treat in Bluestreak’s mouth.

“Mmrmph!” Bluestreak closed his mouth reflexively, and Trailbreaker pulled his fingers out of his mouth with a pop. This treat was sweet, but not cloying.

“Were you trying to say something, Bluestreak?” Mirage asked, curling himself into Bluestreak’s side, his delicate fingers dipping into seams to stroke the components within. 

Speaking around the treat in his mouth, Bluestreak said, “No, just...” He whimpered as Hound pressed a third finger into his now dripping valve. “That just... Oh slag, does that ever feel good,” he gasped.

Bluestreak heard a laugh coming from between his legs just before Hound’s glossa attacked his node with vigour, flicking his anterior node before sucking it between his lips and toying his glossa around it.

It would have been a little embarrassing how quickly Hound’s relentless assault on his node brought him to his climax, but Bluestreak was too consumed with the charge that flashed through his frame to worry about it. As it was, Bluestreak was left cycling his optics at the ceiling as his processor did a soft reset.

Hound was gently rubbing his thighs, and smiled at him when Bluestreak lifted his helm to look at him. The green mech had a smear of lubricant across his chin and both cheeks, but he didn’t seem to care. “Good so far, Blue?” he asked.

“Yeah?” Bluestreak replied absently. It took him another minute to refocus on what was going on around him, with the charge still buzzing through his circuits. When Trailbreaker stroked his cheek again and gave him another treat (copper, this time), he swallowed it and then added, “Yeah. That was amazing, Hound.” He started to raise himself up on his elbows, but Mirage placed a hand on his chest and pressed him back down.

“Nu uh,” Trailbreaker tutted. “You stay put. We’ll move around.” They shifted positions fluidly as if they’d practiced the movements: Hound moved up to cradle Bluestreak’s helm, Trailbreaker curled up at Hound’s side, and Mirage straddled Bluestreak’s legs. Bluestreak briefly wondered which other mechs they had invited into their berth before him. “One down, two to go. Raj, you’re up.”

“Of course,” Mirage said, and looked down at him with bright golden optics. The noble lifted his hand to his mouth, and that’s when Bluestreak noticed that Mirage’s right hand was coated in lubricant. He slipped a finger into his mouth to lick it clean, and smiled. Bluestreak realized that Mirage had been self-servicing with one hand while delving into Bluestreak’s armor seams with the other. “Bluestreak, if you think you’re up for another round, open up your spike housing for me, please.” He tapped gently on the cover for Bluestreak’s spike.

The cover snapped aside, and Bluestreak’s spike emerged and pressurized quickly. It didn’t pressurize quite as fast as it had when Hound was in heat, but it certainly didn’t waste any time. He’d been so focused on what Hound had been doing to his valve, he hadn’t noticed the buildup of pressure in is array until he was able to release it with a quiet huff of relief. He watched Mirage’s smile broaden slightly as he got his first look at the Praxian’s spike. 

“Oh, that’s lovely. I can see why Hound spoke so highly of you, and your equipment.” Mirage encircled Bluestreak’s spike with his fist, drawing it up to the tip slowly and watching the play of biolights shining between his fingers. “Now let’s see if he was right about how it felt.” With a fluid motion, Mirage rose on his knees and then sank slowly onto Bluestreak’s spike.

Mirage’s valve was - well, Bluestreak had never felt anything like it before. It was hot, yes; and wet, very; but it also felt plush in a way that Bluestreak had never experienced before. It was soft and supple, but firm. It almost felt as though he was sliding his spike into a custom-made glove, lined with the softest mesh. Bluestreak let his helm fall back into Hound’s lap, his optics fixed somewhere on the ceiling, and he uttered a quiet moan. 

Above him, Trailbreaker laughed quietly. “I recognize that face,” he said as he traced the edges of Bluestreak’s left audial. A shiver ran through Bluestreak’s frame. “That’s the face of a mech who’s never felt the inside of a Towers-approved valve.”

“I haven’t even began running him through all of the features yet,” Mirage said. _Features?_ Bluestreak thought. He cycled his optics and looked at the noble, who was gazing down at him with a soft look. “For example, there’s the basic massage program.”

Bluestreak gasped as Mirage’s valve began to **ripple**. Waves of pressure gently fluttered up and down the length of Bluestreak’s spike. Even as the ripples seemed to increase in speed, Mirage rose on his knees until Bluestreak’s spike threatened to slip out... Then he slowly slid back down its length, engulfing the Praxian one more.

As Mirage rose on his knees a second time, Bluestreak tried to tell him how fantastic it felt, but found that no sound came out. “Th- That’s amazing,” Bluestreak finally managed to say after resetting his vocalizer twice. “I had – aww, slag that feels good – I had no idea this was even possible.”

“I know some disparaged the ostentatious displays of wealth of some Towers residents,” Mirage said, not slowing his movements, inside or out. “But I have been so glad for this one. It was something I could take with me... And gives others so much pleasure.”

“Does it ever,” muttered Trailbreaker. He rubbed the length of Bluestreak’s audial again, and Bluestreak distantly registered that his fingers were wet and sticky. “But it’s just as much the equipment as the mech it’s attached to.”

“Hush, Trailbreaker. Tonight’s about Bluestreak here, not me,” Mirage said with a scolding tone. But he glanced at Trailbreaker with open affection before looking back down at Bluestreak. “How about another demonstration?” When Bluestreak nodded quickly, he laughed quietly and said, “This one is Hound’s favourite.”

The rippling of Mirage’s valve stopped, replaced by the feel of a hot, wet hand around the base of Bluestreak’s spike. The hand slowly slid up his length until it gripped him firmly just below the tip. A finger gently traced around the ridge.

The sensation was so realistic that Bluestreak glanced down, expecting to see his spike in Mirage’s hand. But it was still deep inside Mirage’s valve. “That’s... uuuh... Wow, Mirage, if you had me blindfolded, I wouldn’t have known that you weren’t using your hand. That...” His words crackled away into static again, forcing him to do another reset. What was this, six? Eight resets? “That feels incredible.”

“I love that one so much,” Hound said. His voice sounded thick and laboured, and his statement ended in a tiny breathy groan.

“Show him the one I like,” Trailbreaker said, his own voice sounding slightly clipped. Bluestreak could feel Trailbreaker’s arm moving, but he was too focused on what was happening in his own lap to look up at the two mechs seated behind him.

The next motion rocked Bluestreak’s helm back into Hound’s lap, and his hands scrabbled to grip Mirage’s thighs. It was a slow but firm undulation, like the ripples from before, but slower, and harder. The pressure gripped his spike just short of painfully hard, and then the grip slid up his spike to the top before gliding back down.

It felt almost as if... Well, Bluestreak had only experienced it once, but it felt just like having his spike down someone’s intake as they swallowed. Except the wave moved up his spike and then back down, and up, and down, with a speed that ever so slowly increased in speed until Bluestreak’s fans strained with the effort of trying to bleed heat off of his frame as his charge rose to a maddening peak.

But just before Bluestreak was about to let himself tip over that precipice, Trailbreaker dragged his fingers up the length of Bluestreak’s audial and lightly pinched the tip.

Bluestreak shouted wordlessly as he bucked his hips up into Mirage’s wet heat, spurts of his hot transfluid coating the already soaking valve. The undulations of the spy’s valve continued through Bluestreak’s overload, but became stuttered and uneven as Mirage shivered and gasped as the charge leapt to him. Before his optical center became overwhelmed and everything around him flared into overexposure, Bluestreak saw Mirage’s mouth gape open and shoulders hunch slightly as he rode out his own overload atop Bluestreak’s spike. 

As his vision cleared, Bluestreak heard a quiet curse and a grunt behind him, and felt hot liquid spatter across his helm. “Whoops, sorry ‘bout that, Blue,” Trailbreaker said, laughter colouring his voice. He grabbed the cloth that Mirage had been using to polish Bluestreak’s armor and wiped the streaks away. Still laughing quietly as he mopped up the last of it, Trailbreaker added, “Hound got ya pretty good there.”

Bluestreak tipped his helm back slightly. From his perspective, Hound was upside down, but the look of utter contentment on the four-by-four’s face looked familiar. “It’s all right,” Bluestreak said, reaching up to pat Hound’s knee. “I don’t mind.”

Still nestled beside Hound, Trailbreaker turned to look down Bluestreak’s frame to Mirage. His expression shifted to one of gentle concern as Mirage slowly slid off of Bluestreak’s softening spike. “You ok there, Raj?”

At Trailbreaker’s words, Bluestreak looked down to see the lithe blue and white mech carefully moving off of Bluestreak. He realized that during his overload, his hands had tightened around Mirage’s thighs hard enough to leave dents where his fingers had been. “Oh gosh, Mirage... I’m so sorry...” He leaned forward and rubbed at the small dents as if he could pull them out with just his fingers. “You should have stopped me, or pulled back, or told me to let go, or...”

Mirage smiled at Bluestreak, pushing the Praxian’s hands aside and sliding up his frame to nuzzle his nasal ridge. “I’m fine, Bluestreak. It’s nothing that my self-repair won’t fix quickly. And it was just proof of your enjoyment.” He rested the crest of his helm against Bluestreak’s chevron, golden optics staring into blue. “I didn’t wear you out, did I? Trailbreaker has yet to have his way with you.” Mirage’s voice dropped into a low, sultry tone.

Bluestreak relaxed as Mirage didn’t seem too concerned about the dents. He tilted his helm back again to look up at the large black mech above him. A shiver ran through his frame as he was suddenly certain what Trailbreaker had in mind for him. “No. I mean, no, you didn’t wear me out. I think. It’s just...” As the members of the triad shifted around him once more, Bluestreak kept his optics on the hulking truck. He worked his intake. “What did you have in mind?”

Trailbreaker parted Bluestreak’s thighs, settling in between them, and slid his huge hands up the sniper’s legs from his ankle joints to his hips. As Hound and Mirage each lay on either side of Bluestreak, Trailbreaker briefly toyed with Bluestreak’s spike as it retracted back into its housing, then stroked a finger down the outer folds of his exposed valve. “What do you think, Hound?” he asked, ignoring the slight twitches of Bluestreak’s legs at his light touches. “Will he be able to take me?”

“Oh yeah,” Hound said. He put a hand on Bluestreak’s chest and looked down into his optics with a smile. “Go slow and he’ll be fine.”

“I doubt this’ll surprise ya, but I’m gonna warn ya anyway, Blue,” Trailbreaker said, dipping the tip of a huge finger into Bluestreak’s valve. “I’m a bit on the large side.” The finger delved deeper into Bluestreak’s opening, and Bluestreak’s thighs fell wider apart as his deeper nodes were brushed. “But it feels like we got ya pretty good and wet. Is this ok so far?”

Bluestreak nodded. It was just a finger, after all. A huge, thick finger, but just a finger. “Yeah, that’s fine,” he said. 

Trailbreak added a second finger. “And this?” He swiveled his hand slightly, rotating the fingers inside the sniper.

All right, it was two broad fingers, almost as thick as that toy that Sunstreaker sometimes used on him. No big deal. Bluestreak nodded and was about to say that it was fine as well, when Trailbreaker added a third finger.

Now there were three huge, wide fingers stuffed into his valve. Bluestreak’s optics widened at the subtle stretching, and he stared up at Hound and Mirage. Bluestreak’s arms, which were wrapped around the waists of both mechs, tightened slightly. “Still good,” he managed to gasp out. 

Mirage’s smile widened. Using a finger to draw invisible circles and loops on Bluestreak’s chest, Mirage said, “Hound showed us that trick you used on him.” He brought his mouth close to Bluestreak’s audial and quietly added, “It was **amazing**.”

“I think Trailbreaker liked it too... Didn’t you, Teebs?” Hound’s lips brushed over Bluestreak’s other audial.

“I did.” Trailbreaker caught and held Bluestreak’s gaze as he used his hand to stroke the tip of his spike through the outer folds of Bluestreak’s valve. Holy slag, it was huge: grey and black, with a spiral of ridges climbing either side. “Hound was able to get noises outta me that... Well, let’s just say I was glad for the soundproofing in everyone’s quarters.” His thumb flicked lightly at Bluestreak’s anterior node, drawing a hiss from the sniper, before pressing the tip of his spike just past the entrance of his valve. “You speak up if ya need me to slow down or stop, all right?”

“I will,” Bluestreak said before his voice crackled apart into static. In a move that had to have been practiced or coordinated over comms, both Mirage and Hound ran their glossa up either side of his chevron at the same time as Trailbreaker’s huge spike pushed deeper into his valve. 

Oh, Primus, Trailbreaker was big. Big... but bearable. Bluestreak realized he had been bracing himself for some kind of discomfort, but the triad had prepared him well: his valve stretched to accommodate Trailbreaker’s spike as it slowly delved into him. Mirage and Hound finished laving the planes and edges of his chevron with their glossa and moved back to his audials, every touch sending thrills of charge through him. Trailbreaker paused, then pulled out slightly before pressing forward once more, lighting up even more nodes that were as yet untouched. Bluestreak closed his optics to focus on the sensation of stretching as Trailbreaker eased into him, almost teasingly slow.

As the deepest nodes in Bluestreak’s valve cycled on at the passage of Trailbreaker’s spike, the truck asked, “Ya good, Blue?” Trailbreaker deep voice sounded a little rough around the edges.

Still keeping his optics closed, Bluestreak nodded. “Yeah,” he replied. Bluestreak had been with large mechs before, but... Not like this. Not with a mech with a spike this wide and this long, with a heavy frame to match. And certainly not with two other mechs licking and nibbling at the most sensitive parts of his helm. His fingers dug into the hip plating of both Mirage and Hound, and he heard Mirage make a quiet, pleased sound. “I’m really, unbelievably, fantastically good.”

But even so, Bluestreak was not prepared for the whoosh of hot air from Trailbreaker’s vents as he puffed a deep laugh. Nor was he prepared for Trailbreaker lifting his hips just slightly with his large hands, pulling back so that only the tip of his spike remained in Bluestreak’s valve, and then thrusting forward again, carefully keeping to the same depth he’d sounded in his first intrusion.

A squeal sounded from Bluestreak’s engine as Trailbreaker drew back again and then drove into him, even harder this time. Within two more strokes, the truck had set up a powerful rhythm that was met in counterpoint by the wet caresses on his audials, jaw, and throat. Each thrust drew a new and wholly undignified sound from Bluestreak’s vocalizer that was accompanied by the sound of metal scraping against mesh, and the tiny happy hums from Hound.

All that Bluestreak felt he could do, the only thing that he had the mental capacity to accomplish at this point, was to cling to the waists of the two mechs beside him, and lock his lower legs around Trailbreaker’s aft. The friction of Trailbreaker’s spike against his deepest nodes was intoxicating, and Bluestreak knew that even after two overloads that evening, the charge now rising in him was going to crest soon in a spectacular fashion.

“Primus, y’all sure make a pretty picture.”

As Trailbreaker’s spike continued to fill him deeply again and again, Bluestreak opened his optics. The large black truck knelt between Bluestreak’s thighs, thrusting his hips forward as he held the sniper’s aft just off the berth surface. Trailbreaker’s visor was locked on the scene in front of him, taking in Bluestreak and the two mechs on either side of him. “My two beauties, cuddled up to this handsome Praxian.” Trailbreaker look of hunger shifted into a grin as he continued to pump into Bluestreak’s valve. His voice became peppered with static as he added, “Why don’t ya give him a show, too?”

“A show, huh?” Hound rose on his elbow and looked across Bluestreak’s chest at Mirage. “That’s a good idea, Teebs.”

Bluestreak peeled his optics away from Trailbreaker’s lust-filled expression as both Hound and Mirage lifted themselves slightly. After giving Bluestreak a quick smile, Hound turned his helm to give Mirage a tender look that Bluestreak had never seen on the scout. Then, reaching out to cradle the back of Mirage’s helm, Hound drew the noble’s lips to his.

Vaguely aware of the warning on his HUD that his cooling fans were running at maximum, Bluestreak watched as Mirage tipped his helm slightly and deepened the kiss, locking his lips with Hound’s. Mirage’s hand, which was still resting on Bluestreak’s chest armor, twitched into a half fist, dragging the tips of his fingers across the plating. 

It seemed like such an intimate moment that Bluestreak was fleetingly struck by the need to look away. But the two mechs’ lips were only a foot away from his optics; there was nowhere else that he **could** look. He could see Hound’s jaw working slowly, and then a flash of Mirage’s glossa as their mouths came apart slightly. He could see Mirage’s lips move as his dentae caught Hound’s upper lip, and the thin strand of oral lubricant that stretched and then snapped between their lips as they parted again. But what made Bluestreak clutch tighter at their frames, his fingers jammed into the cabling at their hips, was the look of pure adoration they both gave each other.

“Frag my fenders,” Bluestreak gasped, his engine whining under the load from his fans and the charge running through his lines. “I’m starting to think the three of you are really out to kill me, because – aww, slag, Trailbreaker – because that’s so fragging hot. **All** of this is.” His engine coughed as he fought off another surge of charge. “But I’m sure as slag gonna go out happy.”

Hound pulled back from Mirage to look down at Bluestreak. His lips were wet from Mirage’s kisses and his cheeks were still smeared with the liquid from Bluestreak’s valve as he smiled at the Praxian. “I promise we aren’t out to kill you, Blue,” he said with a laugh. He leaned down so his nasal ridge rested against Bluestreak’s. “Why would we want to kill someone who treated me so well?” Then he lowered his lips to Bluestreak’s, letting them just gently brush to allow Bluestreak to turn away if he wished.

Hound’s lips were soft, and slicked with lubricant, and Bluestreak eagerly opened his mouth to the scout’s tentative touch. With that invitation, Hound’s glossa slid along Bluestreak’s bottom lip before questing further in. Cupping the side of Bluestreak’s face in his hand, Hound pressed his mouth more firmly against Bluestreak’s as his lips pulled at the sniper’s.

Later, Bluestreak realized that the actions had to have been coordinated somehow, again. As Hound’s dentae closed on Bluestreak’s lower lip in a gentle nip, Mirage suckled on the tip of his chevron and tweaked his audial with his fingers, and Trailbreaker hilted himself deeply into Bluestreak’s valve as he flicked the Praxian’s swollen and sensitive node with his thumb.

Bluestreak screamed into Hound’s mouth as his charge peaked and overwhelmed all his sensors. His hips bucked upwards as Trailbreaker rubbed at his node, prolonging the overload, and then a moment later he felt the truck shudder into his own climax. Bluestreak clung to Hound’s and Mirage’s frames as if they were the only support he had, reeling from the sensations crashing through his frame, sending his breakers and systems into a hard reset.

* * *

Bluestreak’s chronometer told him that he had only been offline for a few minutes, but when his reboot was completed he realized he felt very warm. Warm, and comfortable, and relaxed.

He felt great.

When he onlined his optics, Bluestreak immediately saw the reason that he felt so warm: he was in the middle of a four-bot pile. He was cuddled in Trailbreaker’s lap, with Hound and Mirage draped variously over his legs and shoulders. Someone’s hand was gently caressing one of his door wings, while another hand stroked his thigh.

“Welcome back,” Hound said, looking directly into Bluestreak’s face. “I hope you had a good time.”

“Did I ever,” Bluestreak said faintly. “I told you... I didn’t need thanks, but thanks for the thanks. Thanks for the thanks? Does that make sense? Anyway, it was fantastic, in so many ways.” 

The armor plating under his helm bobbed as Trailbreaker laughed. “You’re welcome, Blue,” he said. “And I’m glad you had fun. We don’t bring other mechs into our berth very often, but when we do, we want to make sure they aren’t disappointed.”

“I was wondering about that,” Bluestreak said. When he heard Mirage made a small questioning sound behind him, he added, “I mean, I was wondering how often you guys... You know, invite others. You seemed pretty practiced in some of the things you did.” He twisted around to try to catch of glimpse of the noble. “And I am not disappointed at all.”

“We never kiss and tell,” Mirage said. He tipped his helm to the side so he could look at Bluestreak more directly. “We’d appreciate if you did the same.”

“We don’t mean you have to keep it a secret,” Hound quickly added. When Bluestreak looked back at him, he smiled. “We just don’t go hollering in the hallways who’s shared our berth.”

“I understand,” Bluestreak said. And he did. It’s not like he or the twins made much noise about their arrangement, either. “That’s not the kind of mech I am, anyway.”

“I figured,” Hound said with a nod. “After all, it’s not like I’d heard anything about your own partners.”

Hound’s words triggered a thought in Bluestreak’s processor, and he quickly looked from Hound, up to Trailbreaker, and back to Mirage. “And hey... If I ever end up going into heat, and any of you are in a position to help me out, please do.” He smiled at all of them again and added, “Or all three of you could help at once. That would be perfect, too.”

Laughing, Hound nuzzled Bluestreak and said, “We’d be happy to, Blue.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Write a little heat fic," my muse said. "It'll be fun!" it said.
> 
> 11,000 words later... >.> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this. XD


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